


From the Deep

by orphan_account



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, Canonical Character Death, Erik Has Feelings, Little Mermaid Elements, Non-Human Genitalia, One Shot, Other, Siren, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, and is going through a psychotic break, but vague, i hope you all enjoy it!, mild seduction of the ugly man, murder in the first two seconds, poor Philippe, so what better to do than throw a merperson at him?, the daroga is going to lose his patience with both erik and the creature mark my words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 06:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20354185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Erik wasn't lying when he swore up and down that he was not the cause of Philippe de Chagny's death. And while he could not prove the existence of a Siren deep within the Palace Garnier's underground lake, it wasn't long before it showed up at his doorstep - soaking wet, naked, and with a wide grin.





	From the Deep

Above their head it shifts. A strange, oblong shape, with sharp ends. It’s familiar, but they can barely see … they approach slowly, letting their vision clear. The word hits them right as the water splashes and shifts. It’s a boat. It’s _his _boat! But that movement is so automated and short. It isn’t him directing it, they know it. A slight shift over, risking exposure to get a better glance at this stranger. Gold and silver hair, narrow and determined eyes. An intruder. They look toward the lights, toward the hidden gem of this place.

He mustn’t know this stranger is approaching. If he did, this intruder would be dead by now. What does this stranger want? No, they can’t let him get any closer!

Something darts violently through the water almost overturning Comte Philippe de Chagny.

He cries out, the echo taking on an eerie presence in the otherwise deathly silent caverns. Fish. There must be fish in this lake, he reasons. Albeit large fish, no doubt, but fish nonetheless. Must not let paranoia get the best of him. He continues rowing, to the house beyond the lake. To chase after his insane little brother. And to stop whoever the hell this “Erik” is! He pants, the temperature dropping dramatically as whatever light managed to leak in through the cracks in the cavern fades.

Philippe pauses and looks around. Now only the torches along the side of the lake guide his way, but from here he can see it. A house, decently sized, just a half mile off. “I can do this…” he whispers to himself, and sets back to rowing.

He is frozen solid by a voice reverberating from the water. Soft, lilting, it surrounds him like fog, clouding his vision and thoughts. He sets the oars in the boat, his hands, shaking, reach toward the pistol nestled in his waistcoat. But he never takes it. His eyes lock on something long, serpentine moving in the water. And that voice … it moves with the creature.

It spins under his vision, arching toward him, and his boat on the glass water. Something shines a deep gold, two pinpoints of light watching him from who knows how far below. Phillippe can’t decide which is more terrifying; it being far away or being up close -- for now it looks humanoid, though much longer than a human can be. And how it vocalizes … so rich, so sweet, with the feeling that its lips are beside his ear, in his boat…

Behind him.

He yelps and turns quickly, the boat rocking with his sudden shifting. But there is no one there, and when he turns back the creature is gone. And yet the song … the song is not. It surrounds him, circles him.

He can barely breathe, and in a move he will come to regret, he starts paddling closer to the house on the lake … it didn’t look so far just a moment ago.

From behind, he hears the water tension break, the voice no longer in his ear, but at his back, with an edge sharp enough to cause pain. He whines, hands moving to cover his ears. His eyes water to the point the light from the house is completely gone, and it feels like there is blood pouring from his ears. Not possible … not possible.

“For the love of God,” he begs, “leave me be!”

The silence is deafening. His heart pounds against his ribs. The water makes no sound. A hand grabs the back of his shirt, but no screams come. It is gentle, but where it is from makes it far from a comfort. The drops of ice water run down his spine, and the lithe hand slides up to his shoulder.

Philippe closes his eyes, feeling the water close in around his body, stopping his breath. Arms, thin as a corpse, wrap around his body, not letting him swim up to salvation. He takes in mouthfuls of foul, slimy water, his chest radiating pain. In his last second of consciousness he feels the creature release him, the water shifting so that it is facing him completely.

They lean in, head tilting to the side, and they watch the light fade from his eyes.

It’s only been a day since he let Christine and that boy return to the surface, and he already yearns for death. Everything has been overwhelming, has moved so fast, he can barely think. He simply lies in his bed -- one hidden behind a curtain, not the coffin he has moved in preparation for his demise -- in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

Just waiting.

“To think,” he says to no one, “fifty-four years of life, and with nothing to show for it.” He sighs, though it is more of a huff, and laces his fingers behind his head, thin hair cushioning his head. “How shall I die? Starvation? Suicide? I could just … walk into the lake. Like the Count himself.” His voice shifts to a humorless laugh, and he holds his belly at the thought.

He rises, bare feet hitting the rug beside his bed. “Well whatever happens, at least I’ll be done. Done with--with the damn managers, with the Daroga. With it all. And especially with …” He’s cut off, his eyes glaring at his bedroom door. Beyond it. To the beach, to the water. Erik’s breathing quickens, and he rushes through the house, his hands finding the wooden rails of his porch with a white-knuckled grip.

“I heard you … I know I did …” He whispers, eyes scanning the still, black water around him. It’s pitch black. Past midnight, he knows, and none of the torches are lit. He won’t see it, it’s not possible. But he knows it’s there. In his stomach, in his mind, in his very soul.

The Siren is watching him.

Erik sneers, on the edge of growling, eyes becoming slits as the water gently laps on the shoreline. He walks slowly down the stone walkway, his footfalls echoing with sicatto against the stone walls around him. He stops right at the water's edge, his shoes just barely in the low tide.

“Murderer of Count de Chagny,” He mirrors his friend’s words, eyes locked on a dark section of water a few yards out, “why must you torture me so? Or … are you there?” With a crack in his voice, Erik covers his face with trembling hands. “Is my mind so feeble that I created you? To hide my guilt over that man’s demise…”

God, he should never have teased Christine like that. The sound of the bell, “ **I am going to tell the siren to open the door **”, and then … the man laying on the lake. Completely water logged. Skin removed of all color. Oh, he dove into the water, praying that by some mercy of God that the man could be saved. Philippe was already floating downward by the time Erik reached his body. His stomach churning, he rushed back to the house, speaking quick, too quick. Ranting. Too occupied to notice the absence of his bag at first.

But that was then. Now his mind is clear. And if he didn’t kill Philippe de Chagny, then what did? Drowning the way he did would only fit someone who hadn’t been on water. The Chagny brothers were renowned sailors, though Philippe did retire at thirty.

Something makes Erik open his eyes and return to the house. He blames the chill from the sheer fact he lives underground, and goes to stoke the fire. His mind barely registers the sound of something emerging from the water.

Learning to walk is a milestone for the majority of mammals. For all but three, in fact. The whale, dolphin, and well … something a little odd. Aquatic, yes, but with appendages more like yours or mine ran a single tail and fins. For these creatures, walking has never been a necessity. Or even a desire .

And yet here they are.

One, two. Short, scared strides along the boat dock. A hand, sickly pale to the average eye, clings to the rails tight. Long legs tremble, and a pair of plush lips pant and whimper with every painful push of gravity on their shoulders. Slow progress is better than none, but they would rather this come as naturally as gliding through the dark waters behind them.

With an ungraceful thud, they fall to their knees, whimpering and rubbing their calves with a sniff. Never had this much weight on them before, this will definitely be an adjustment … but they got further than expected, and that is what matters!

Shadows move around the strange home, around the windows they can see his thin, graceful form pacing. They sigh, hand reaching out for him. So much work, and yet their legs can barely support their body. They can’t stop now. Pulling themself up, they steady their body and march up the dock, to the stone walkway. Every movement like stepping on glass. With one last step, they fall against the door, their fist resting on the wrought iron detailing.

They hear him from the other side, his melody caressing their ears with fine silks. They climb up the door, pushing onto their feet right as the door opens.

Erik gasps, the red punjab slipping from his fingers silently. Impossible. _Impossible_… the creature, with long, muddy gray hair and skin akin to a corpse, grins at him with its absent lips and jagged teeth. He takes one step back, barely dodging the webbed hand that reaches for his shoulder.

“Don’t … not real. You,” he wags his finger, “aren’t real. _Can’t _be real.”

“ …. Ah?” It’s voice is familiar, and his body shivers on instinct. How dare his mind betray him so! He’ll do something about it. He’ll cast this vision away. With a sneer, Erik rushes forward, hands wrapping around the creature’s neck. “_Ahh_!” It grips the sleeves of his shirt tight, and realization slaps him hard.

He isn’t imagining this.

Shock fills the creature’s bright golden eyes. Tears rush down its face.

He _isn’t_ imagining this.

It cries out softly, pleading, pawing at his wrists, his arms, his face. His face … it shows no fear. No hate, no disgust. Only confusion.

He isn’t imagining _this_.

Erik’s arms fall before his body does. Onto his knees, onto his hands. He pants weakly, staring at the red and gold pattern of the carpet under his shadow. Above him, there is a light chirp, a sigh. Then footfalls, muffled by the cloth flooring, so around him, leaving his earshot. He gasps and stands straight, looking around swiftly.

“Oh God, where did it go?”

Not surprisingly, they’re in the last spot he decides to check. He pulls the curtain back from the bedframe, eyes and mouth growing wide in shock at the sight spread before him. They look … _different_ when dry. Haloed by gossamer hair, gleaming like silver in the candle light, the creature lays atop the bedspread with a content expression on their face, eyes reflecting light blue. He circles around the bed, pulling the curtains open as he goes to further shine the light on his tormentor, all the while they watch him curiously.

“So, you’re the one who killed Comte de Chagny,” Erik crosses his arms, looking down at the strong, lithe body presented to him. “And all this time … I had thought you were just … up here.” He taps his temple with a sour chuckle. “Thought you were me. You sure made a fool out of me, _Siren_.”

“Mmh?” Their head tilts, and they shift slightly on the covers. Erik stops his eyes from leaving their face.

“Do you even _understand _me?” He shakes his head, leaning against the lower right post of the bed. “Of course it doesn’t, Erik. It isn’t human, it can’t speak at all!” He falls into rambling, muttering, speaking to himself like a second person. The creature sits up, resting on the palms of their hands, and crawls over to him. The feeling of their cool, soft skin against his cheek is enough to pull him from his own mind.

“Rrrt?” They whisper, enveloping his shoulders with their arms. Erik’s eyes follow their hands, a light finger trailing along the hollows of his cheeks, the bridge leading to his lack-of-nose, cupping just under his chin gently.

“What is it you want?” He asks, knowing they won’t answer, but asks regardless. He finds it relieving to put the inquiry out in the air. The creature blinks twice, bites their lip, and lightly tugs at Erik’s dark locks. “Hey! Alright, no.” He bats their hand away, shaking his head, “naughty Siren. That was very rude.” They pout, pulling him tighter to their chest.

Erik remembers having a cat that behaved somewhat like this.

Their lips part again, but instead of a sweet trill or strange chirp, Erik’s ears are filled with the sweetest music, flowing from his mind to his heart with all the grace of a ballerina. The creature moves away from Erik, pulling him toward them with an innocent bat of their eyes. And he follows, falling under the same spell he knowingly used on others so many times in his life.

They lay across the bed, arms spread out, inviting him to join them. Lay with them. Erik regains his senses long enough to feel a twinge of doubt in his stomach. The creature stops singing, rolling onto their stomach and patting the spot on the bed beside them.

Then they open their arms once more.

“You wish to … _hold_ me.” Erik guesses, carefully laying beside the creature. Arms length apart, he faces the ceiling, stiff as a board. Without a sound, the creature shifts over, draping their arm over his chest, their leg curling between his, and their head nestling against his shoulder. He breathes out, his arm sliding under their body to wrap gently around their waist. This is a strange sensation.

He can feel their heart, racing a thousand beats a second. Much like his. He closes his eyes and listens to the creature in his arm. To the soft breathing, every little shift of fabric that tickles his chest when it stretches and whines.

He drifts off pretending a cat is sleeping beside him.


End file.
